Open your hand, He says in a voice so calm that pinches her heart, like always. She tightens her clenched fist a bit more, for she knows once opened, not only herself but both of them will be left empty-handed once again.
They sit there, in her room beside her writing desk, staring at the laptop screen. So close but so apart that there are worlds between them. Listening to the tick-ticks and the silence, hearts sinking to immeasurable depths.
They are different. She lies. He tells the truth. She saves her world but destroys herself. He destroys his world but saves himself. Always. Yet they sit here, bound together with their weird connection, like nothing ever happened when their world is on fire. Fire? is it dangerous than silence? Of course it is. It destroys? and what does silence do? It kills. Destructed can be rebuilt, but there is no coming back after death.
She opens her fist. Nothing happens. The air still suffocates. Tick-ticks keep on piercing their hearts. and silence? It has already killed them.
I am sorry for your loss. I am sure you are sorry too, for mine. Our losses will look different, from the outside. But trust me, both of us have lost ourselves forever. Forever.
‘Is this a dream or reality?’ I am sure some of you, if not all, may have asked themselves the same question in an intricate day-dreaming state of mind.
I am standing right now beside these tall ancient buildings, asking myself the same question. The buildings are dark brown with just the right amount of golden shade that adds to their glory. Its not easy to look towards the top without straining you neck, but it is worth it. Doing that makes you feel small, almost too tiny to meet eyes with your own conscience.
I am confused. I can’t decide whether to reflect myself in the magic of these buildings that are connected to each other but feel so apart, that they seem lonely. Or to look at people, walking hand in hand, in pairs and in groups, with smiles on their faces talking to each other, enjoying each other’s company better than the silence of these buildings. And listen to the stories being told by their eyes casting sorrowful shadows that are mismatched to the big upward curve of their lips.
At places between the main road with tall buildings, there are narrow streets that emerge out of nowhere. Strolling on these streets is a totally different experience. I feel like I am inside a historical Hollywood movie, in which wars are fought and traditions are preserved. The walking paths here are made of bricks and carry small vintage cafes, pubs and restaurants that give out a strange homely feeling. Everything is perfect, the architecture, the colors and the classical smell. I walk closer to the wall along one of a vintage cafe with old furniture, some torn up books and a piano in it’s window and touch it. And wonder if it is just me, ……or anyone else can also hear sobs?
Well, may be it is just me. I am a traveler not a tourist, so I tend to feel things no one else can. I am not even sure if those things are real or is it just my own reflection that I see in places that own footsteps of people from thousands of years ago.
I pause for a second and take a deep long breath, trying to take in the air that smells of the past. Standing there right beside my eyes; Centuries pass, faces walking along these paths change, some colors fade and some are brightened, spellings on the name boards at the front of little shops are shuffled to form other words and melancholy… it lingers in the air of these streets. And Within a blink of my eye, it all comes back to the present. Its just a street, a normal street that quite conveniently takes you to your destination. Right. But where would it take you if you don’t have any destination at all?
After wandering around for the whole day it is time to go back. But the strange thing? My heart. It used to be active, mostly to cry and be sad but it was active. Active is being alive, no? And right now, after seeing so much, I feel like I have seen nothing. Do I feel sad now? I do, yes. Do I cry and ask for help? No I don’t. Because there is no one. Absolutely no one. Just the silence and empty heart beats. I laugh now, I tell jokes. I am funny. Because, I guess I have no other option. Not being funny asks for someone to listen to the reason of not being funny and there is no one. So hey there lifeless buildings and silent streets, You are about to be discovered some more by a traveler who is not alive anymore.